“And you’re certain that you locked up when you left here Sunday.”

“Positive.”

“What time was that?”

“Around five-thirty.” Emily realized that she was covering the same ground that she’d gone over yesterday when she’d accompanied Quinn to the police station to identify her husband’s missing car.

Moran asked, “And when you were here Sunday, did you notice anything else unusual?”

Emily said, “Do you mean, was there a man’s body under that table? No.” She got out her phone and showed him pictures she’d taken, pausing on the one of the workbench.

Moran narrowed his gaze. “What makes you think it’s a man’s body?”

The only sound in the office was the patter of raindrops. Emily said, “The little bit that I could see. The shoes. The fingers. The baseball cap. I just assumed.”

Mrs. Murphy gave a nervous laugh, then clapped her hand over her mouth.

“I wonder if any of you recognize him.” Moran put away his pad and took out a cell phone. He held it out so each of them in turn could see a photo of the man. His face was bloated, skin the color of clay. His eyes were closed. He had dark, close-cropped hair, and a mustache and beard.

“I don’t know him,” Lila said.

“Nor do I,” added Mrs. Murphy.

Becca said, “I don’t recognize him, either.”

Emily didn’t say anything. She could feel everyone’s eyes on her. Walter Newell had dark hair and a mustache and beard like this guy, but that was hardly enough to say it was him.

“Take your time,” Moran said. “Death can alter a person’s appearance.”

Emily tried to visualize the picture that Quinn had brought to the police, or the man she’d run into at the coffee shop. “There was no identification on him?” she asked.

Moran didn’t answer. He opened the door to the office and beckoned her outside. Emily hesitated, unsure whether to follow. She turned to her mother, but for once her mother had no advice. Emily braced herself and followed Moran.

Outside, the rain had turned to a fine mist and it felt as if the sun was trying to break through. Moran tilted his head and looked down at her. “You recognize him, don’t you?”

“No,” Emily said, the denial coming too fast. “But I know who he might be.”

21